He always seemed old to me imbued
In the senior wise look of he who speaks,
Few words and cherishes silence. Though
I saw him only several times throughout
My life, he always made it a point to tell me
Just how much he loved me, and I believed him,
Despite unheeded rumours about his character
And genuineness. Indeed, he was different
From many and many of his quirks
Were interpreted as a malaise, the hard
Adjustment to society, to do as opposed
To humbly be. A legitimate human condition
I reckon, more so when corroborated
By awareness. Yet I had the privilege
To ask, of him my family history as he
Was probably one of the few holders of truth
And details left around. To my beguile
Family history soon became, the captivating
Story of Persia, empires and shahs, romantic
Love affairs, betrayals and coup d’état.
To which I listened carefully taking notes,
As if deeply acknowledging the honour,
A kid anticipating a delightful treat conscious
That he will eventually grow up and aunts
And uncles won’t linger on forever. Each
Opportunity possibly being a one last chance,
And that with his death I would have lost
My origins, confused in the mist of distant past,
Ignorance of present, absences of future.
On his every word I clung. Notes in drawers,
He died abruptly returning home, after dinner
With his brothers, someone ran him over.
His recounts are to me his legacy, that of a man
Who recognised himself as a spectator
Of life, too weak or shy for action disdaining
The spotlight, aware of his limits at peace
With them and with not much ado,
He departs. To proceed an eternal voyage
In a Universe I can only imagine, he would be
Eager and dazzled to observe. With love,
To my uncle. May he fly on that mystic carpet
Through infinite space unfolding marvels,
Where stars embrace him in warmth as he
Baffles in dismay, finally feeling as if he belongs
To the great wonder that is The All.